


DIVERGENT PATHS

by APendingThought



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Bo-Katan Kryze Being a Jerk, Bo-Katan Kryze Has Issues, Coping, Delirium, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fever, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt Din Djarin, Hurt/Comfort, I'm sorry that you seem to be confused he belongs to ME that DIN is MINE, In this Universe Omera is the Village Healer, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Mandalorian Armor (Star Wars), Mandomera, Medical Procedures, Minor Din Djarin/Omera, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Planet Sorgan (Star Wars), Rivalry, Sad Grogu | Baby Yoda, Suffering, Surgery, Tears, Violence, Whump, because I said so, bullet wounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:08:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29773185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APendingThought/pseuds/APendingThought
Summary: The sun rose and set before he came and the sun will rise and set after he leaves. The Mandalorian is not the first man Omera has welcomed and bid farewell to.  But when he arrives at her threshold near death and stained with blood, she will have to reckon with the possibility that he might never return.Complicating these matters, of course, is the Other Woman.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Omera
Comments: 49
Kudos: 37





	1. THE WIND

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't think I would write another Mandalorian fic but the characters are too damn engaging and Season 3 is still too far away to quench my thirst. Omera is such a dynamic character that I enjoyed weaving more substance into her background even if it is a lie. I am also very smitten with Bo-Katan who I see as a thrilling contrast to Omera's own fighting spirit.
> 
> Lots of made up culture and lore here. Helps me keep the universe recognizable.
> 
> This is an elaborate whump fic, make no mistake. My sandbox still has the usual brand of sand in it. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!

The women in the village had a saying.

“If the wind blows strong enough to notice, change is coming.”

The men also had a saying.

“If the wind blows strong enough to notice, you are not working hard enough.”

Omera preferred fashioning her days with the latter. Change wasn’t always welcome or loving. Work, on the other hand, provided.

It was hard work sloughing the krill beds from sun up until sun down.  
It was hard work foraging the forest for food, medicine and patching for her thatch roof.  
It was hard work caring for her husband. (not quite as hard burying him)  
It was hard work birthing her daughter.  
It was hard work raising her to be a woman she had no reference for.

So it didn’t matter which way the wind blew. Change she had no longer had even the slightest yearning for. Not that her yearning had ever been a consideration to begin with.

Her thoughts at present were in the kitchen-- what to make for the evening _shelac_. What was on hand and what she would have to poke around outside for. If Winta ever appears with a basket of enough _spirolin_ heads, she could prep their usual _sterj_ with steamed _pok_. But if she has been sharp eyed as she’d been trained to be, the late frost had every chance of revealing the rare deep blue _telin_ fungus which she could mix into dough for _sholo_ buns.

She had been daydreaming of the savory bread when the wind began to bluster. She shuts the curtains, preventing it from stirring the strings of dried roots, herbs and bulbs swaying from her rafters, too tired to deal with another mess.

A sharp rap at the door makes her start.

It is Barka, captain of the Watch, dripping wet from the heavy mist turned rain outside. Still in his battered patrol uniform fashioned of scavenged pre-empire relics, he removes his helmet.

“Widow.” Barka addresses her with no (time for) formality. “The Mandalorian has returned.”

Omera feels her heart stop.

“When?”

“Our scouts tracked his vessel’s beacon signal about three parsecs ago but it has since gone silent. We believe he was being pursued.”

Omera barely hears him, setting down her bowl and spoon with a private smile. Had she noticed the wind that day? Bent hours over a stubborn patch of mature krill, had it been strong enough to lift the strands of her hair free from their netting? By the stars, her hair….! The intensity of Barka’s words drift in and out while her mind sifts hungrily for the muted memory of his voice--.

An abrupt noise. Barka clears his throat, awaiting some kind of response from her.

“Forgive me. What must I do, Barka?” She flushes.

“Ready your house. Be sure the cookpot is full. There may be more than one.”

She frowns. _What could this mean?_

“We tried to send him a message but received no response. One of the scouts believed he heard multiple voices over his last transmission.”

Her breathing shorts.

“He is injured then.” She knows this with more confidence than she has claim to. 

“We do not know.” Barka shrugs. “My scouts are leading them here now.”

“I will await word from them then.” 

“Thank you, Widow.” He turns to leave. 

“Is the Child with him?” She asks hurriedly.

“I do not know.” He dons his helmet once more. "Ready your house."

Barka takes his leave, an overburdened presence grateful to be gone. Slowly, she sinks back into her chair, blinking into the now weakening cookfire.

She draws a calm breath. Against the wind.

What to do first?

 _Cookpot._ Men would be coming. They would need food. She’d hardly prepped enough to feed her daughter and herself and now guests! Her eyes flicker up to the rafters, making quick count of how many dried _yul_ bulbs she had left. Kitchen staples, they would flavor large quantities of _igual_ grain. A quick potage would have to suffice. She puts a cauldron of brine over the grate and throws another log on the fire to bring it to a fast boil. Another pot of water goes over the flame. 

Just in case…

 _A fire._ The hearth embers are dying in the _scheta_ —the gathering place—because Winta had neglected to feed it before joining her friends to forage. The widow throws another log on the fire pit too, relieved that her house would at least be warm and welcoming.

More than one? 

Barka's words haunt her. She twines an absent finger through her hair, realizing suddenly that not only has she not combed it, she’s forgotten to rinse the salt out. Its gnarled ends tangle against the rough surface of her work dress. Just when she thought she’d have a restful night, another task has been set before her. Her aching back and calloused feet are quickly forgotten. This is work she can welcome.

She could comb her hair now. Dab a bit of _yala_ oil on her lips. But he—the Mandalorian--would likely have no care for it. She is relieved, at least, that she has already soiled her day shift cleaning the canals that afternoon. It would make no difference now this night if it got spattered with blood.

Her heart lurches at the thought. _His blood…_

“Mama?”

Her daughter stands in the doorway that Barka had just exited, a basket of now unimportant blue fungus clutched in her arms.

“Winta…” She calls to the waiting girl, idling in the doorway. “…ready the barn. We’ll soon have guests.”  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Time passes, the sky deepens further and no one comes. 

No scout.   
No light signal.   
Not even a messenger _twi_. 

Doubt begins to pick at her mind as she paces. The wind outside moans, rattling her attention, but she focuses her plagued thoughts elsewhere. 

Perhaps his landing site has been a day’s journey to the village. Perhaps they have been delayed. But why would Barka have come to her in such haste unless…?

For the millionth time, she checks the cookpot, grateful to have set it to boil beforehand. The potage has been ready for hours. Tea steams in the kettle. Winta has already eaten but she herself is too anxious. Her belly feels tight with panic or anticipation; she isn’t sure what. She is not sure what she is meant to feel in this vacant and cruel stretch.

So once again, privately, she allows her mind to drift. 

Her face warms at the memory of the stranger with the voice like night--the one who had saved them. After him, many changes had come to the Village. Barka’s office, for example, the old man had named himself Protector after the Mandalorian’s departure. The Village Watch had formed—the group of selected young men and women whose only job it was to patrol the surrounding forest in search of threat.

Threat that had not returned--not since Him.

Many things had not returned since Him. 

She checks the window. Nothing.

She absently tries to remember where she’d placed her scented oils. Were they in the new straw baskets or the old clay pot she normally kept them in? She sits down. She gets up. She sits down again. Where had she put them? 

"Mama?" Winta asks, holding up a square of neat linen. "Is this good enough?" The good child has been folding scraps for gauze, readying for a crisis.

"Yes, my love." She smiles.

She gets up again and resumes circling the interior of the _scheta_. She feels useless, on edge. Should she freshen up? No! How foolish!

She furiously banishes the thought, thinking of what else to ready as she moves across the heated room, hands clasped before her. There might be injured in the party. Did she have enough salve? Enough linens to bind? Sinew braces take time to make properly. Was there enough algae for poultice? She's not checked the pots in a while.

All she can be certain of is soon he would be here. After that, she will not be able to tame her thoughts much at all. He would be standing before her, in her own hut. How could she greet him smelling of marsh water and sweat? How could she not at least have a mind to plait her hair so that it would not catch?

The oils she has no time to hunt for so she abandons the notion. What was the point in enticing him to stay over a little perfume? Who would possibly notice the scent of fragrant sap over the heavy smell of blood? She is a fool.

She forces herself to stop and stares into the fire. 

This waiting, she decides, is also work.


	2. RUDE ARRIVAL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorian arrives

It is well past moon rise when the crunch of frantic footsteps and hushed voices break her listless gaze. She’d nearly succumbed to the weariness in her bones, eyelids drooping. Winta had long since wrapped herself up in her sleeping roll. Now she stirs at the sounds of approaching strangers. Omera swiftly rises, placing herself at the door.

Her hesitant smile fades.

The village men—scouts for Captain Barka—she recognizes right away from their uniform colors. Her eyes adjust in the darkness, catching the light of a metallic glint, the gleaming beskar. For an instant, her heart dares move with joy.

But what is this?

He is being carried. There is another with him. Another garbed like him. 

By her shape, there is a woman with him. She is clad in armor resembling his. But curious! Unlike him, she does not wear a helmet.

Pale of face with eyes the color of flint, her hair reminds Omera of _iksil_ root left to dry in the sun. It is chopped short and rough as though she has clipped it herself without looking. She half expected the solid maiden —the former Empire soldier—to be at his side but this warrior is smaller-boned, lithe and meaner.

She bears his limp body solidly on her shoulders, determination and weariness etched on her brow. She takes no notice of Omera waiting astounded at the doorframe but her milk-colored face twists.

“This the house?” She asks.

Omera can see she is out of breath. She all but has to drag him inside. His body is so much larger and his armor more cumbersome but she does not sway. Omera moves quickly to the Mandalorian’s unoccupied side to aid her, hefting the dead weight of his arm across her own shoulders. Accustomed to carrying barrels of brine back and forth between the paddies, his weight is a manageable burden.

Before Omera can speak, the woman raises her voice again.

“ _Wonderful._ A mudhut.” She snorts as she lumbers into the waiting _scheta_. The Mandalorian, to her alarm, makes no sound. 

“Bring him here.” Omera orders, leading her towards the woven pallet before the fire. 

It is then that Omera can clearly see her face. Sharp angles, high bones and eyes that do not yield. _She is beautiful_ , Omera decides, _and not without station among her kind._

“He’s wounded.” The alarmed words leave her lips faster than she can check them.

“Really.” The woman’s response is blunt, too occupied with easing her companion as carefully as she is able to the floor. “Do you have any bacta, woman?”

Omera has had enough of her.

She squares herself up, entire body going rigid from the tips of her fingers to her toes. Her gaze flickers pointedly outside, over the woman’s shoulder. The village scouts look on in hushed trepidation having already enjoyed one journey with this new encounter.

“I believe you dropped your manners outside.” Omera registers her voice low. “Best run back and fetch them before you enter MY house.”

This is the wrong thing to say, she knows. His wound needs tending immediately, it is all she can do to hold her place and not rush to his side but first she must let this stranger know whose ground she now stands on.

Having laid him safely upon the pallet, the woman rises to acknowledge her host. 

“I am Bo-Katan.” A single nod. Not an apology but she’ll accept what she can get.

“Omera.” Is all she offers in exchange. This Mandalor woman, it seems, has sense enough to leave the air between them at that. 

Omera’s attention abruptly shifts, kneeling beside the man. His visor is darkened, the helmet battered. Much of the blood comes from his lower body, soaking his breeches. Her floorboards are quickly darkening with it. He does not move but she can sense weak, shallow breathing through the vocoder which delivers his voice.

“What happened?”

“We were outnumbered. He has need of bacta. Do you have any?” Bo-Katan presses again.

“There is no bacta here.”

Bo-Katan’s displeasure makes no attempt to hide itself. “What IS this place? Endor?”

“No. Help me remove the armor.”

“You a healer then?”

“I am. Help me!”

Bo-Katan joins her on the floor and begins loosening the clasps holding the cuisse sheathed around his calf. The lower armor must be removed first for access.

“Do you know where is he wounded?”

“It’s his leg. Caught a bullet at the bridge. No blasters, just artillery. Imps played us old school.”

“You are certain these were Imperial troops that wounded him?” Bakar presses, watching the proceedings from the door. “Your people have a way of collecting enemies everywhere they go.”

“Only Imps use heat seeking ammo. Their shooters couldn’t land a mark without a map! Bullet nicked him by accident, they were probably aiming for his head if I know Imps.” 

“Are there any other injuries?” Omera asks her.

“Not sure. He fainted on the way here. Are you going to help or not?” She snaps, swinging her ire towards the gathered group of scouts hiding behind Barka. 

The village men linger hesitantly in the background, making feeble motions of assistance. They hang back, looking to Omera for guidance. Most of them are young and understandably afraid. Omera lifts her voice to them.

“Unfasten his lower armor as quickly as you can, take care moving him.” The men nod as one, rushing forward to obey. She is able to unclasp both of his vambraces, hesitant to remove his cuirasse as that would require lifting him. She does not want to hasten the bleeding but it must being plugged and slowed before she can work. While the scouts see to the man, she gathers her instruments. Bandages, the boiled water, the salves, medicine….

“Imperial drones may be hiding in the brush.” Barka’s eyes remain glued to his scanner. “Have your fighters flushed them out already?”

“Can we discuss this later?” Bo-Katan snarls, tight-lipped. Blood from the man’s thigh pumps freely, smearing against her own armor. “Maybe when my commanding officer is not dying, I’ll have better answers for you.” Accepting a square of linen from the Widow, she presses it over his gaping wound and bears her weight down. 

“Gahhh…!” The man's yell rips violently from his throat, breath leaving him all at once. Omera winces at the agonized sound from her kitchen, hastening back to his side.

“Oh hush!” Bo-Katan mutters, struggling to keep his leg immobile. “You could be in worse straits.”

The sound of footsteps running alerts the attention of the scouts.

“Barka! I have found something!” It is Esker, the youngest patrol man. In his arms, he carries a wriggling bundle. 

“It’s the Child!” Omera cries, running to her threshold to take the baby from him. Clutching his little body close, she presses her cheek to its soft, whiskered head. The weight that has found new homing in her chest lifts at the sound of his squeal. “Thank the stars, you’re not hurt!”

The child hiccups in agreement, one tiny green three-clawed hand winding itself in her hair, tugging impatiently. It does not soothe as she jounces it gently on her hip, whining uneasily. His black eyes search the space continuously for his protector.

“Oh right, the Sprout.” Bo-Katan does not look up from staunching the wound. “He hid the Foundling at the start of the melee. Lucky your Scouts were sharp enough to relocate it.”

“Do not worry.” Omera bends her head low to whisper into his large ear. “You are safe here, Little One.”

The child whimpers, its black gaze unmoving from the fallen man laid out on the floor. 

“Well we didn’t come for a play date!” Bo-Katan’s voice rises urgently. “He needs healing. Now. What can you do for him?”

“Winta?” 

Her daughter creeps forward at the sound of her name, still wearing her night clothes. 

“Take the child, keep him out back. Don’t come into this room again until I call you. Understood?”

Eager to have her playmate back again, Winta stretches out her arms to accept the baby, wrinkling her nose at the heavy stench of blood. 

“Mom…?” She questions, casting an anxious glance over her shoulder. The girl is frozen, transfixed on the stranger. She was not too young to remember her father in that place. Omera catches quick, obscuring her view with her own body.

“Just GO!” Omera orders, a little too sharply. Her child knows better than to do otherwise.

“He’ll be alright.” Winta cradles the fretful child in her arms, whispering down to it. “You'll see. Mom's the best!” Turning him away from the violent scene, she scampers outside.

Omera turns lastly to Barka. “You may call off your men. They’re needed at the watch. Post guards outside the barn. Protect the children.”

“Yes, mistress.” Barka waves the order to his waiting scouts. “Anything else?” 

“If any want food, it’s on the fire. Bring it outside to eat. Now leave us.”

At the back of her mind, Omera faintly wonders why she is not heeded more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took lots of liberties here. I hope I did Bo-Katan justice. As much as I love her in the show, I know very little about her character and I am lazy and haven't done any research.


	3. PREPARATIONS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bo-Katan and Omera ponder what to do about his Creed. They must save him but at what cost?

They begin to work in haste. 

“He’s coming to.” Bo-Katan reports. “When he does, he'll get dicey. We need to work fast.” The bloodied fabric she’d used to staunch the wound is now completely saturated red, draped limply across his hip. 

The bleeding has slowed but now the man is beginning to stir, his pain rising with his consciousness.

“Wash your hands.” Omera is already at her wash basin. “We must be clean before we help him.”

Bo-Katan rises, releasing the clasps to her own vambraces and rolling up the sleeves of her flight suit. She lathes her hands up to the elbows in the water Omera provides, coating her fingers in the thick golden _brikka_ oil used in Sorgan to ward off germs.

“Your people haven't heard of soap?” Bo-Katan mutters.

“The oil does the same job. Now come help me.”

The Mandalorian is disarmed, weapons placed arranged neatly before the threshold. The pulse rifle, blaster and dagger make Omera suppress a shudder. His armor, save the helm, has been removed piece by piece, the blood-sodden flight suit cut away from his flesh at the hip. There is a minor slash on his chest that is already starting to go pink with festering. It will need a poultice to mend the skin and fight infection. 

More worrisome is his leg. 

With the blood washed away, the wound proves to be high up in the thigh. She covers him again with the blanket, noting that his body has begun to shiver slightly.

_Shock. Not good._

Omera rinses her hands well and dries them on a hemp towel used normally for straining. She is grateful Winta had thought to prepare the gauze pads for wounds before their arrival, folding scraps of clean fabric into squares, several layers thick. It will soak up the blood she knows will be spilling soon. 

There is the issue of the helmet. 

She worries for his breathing. His throat where she can see its flash beneath the metal moves with his unsteady respiration, skin damp with sweat.

“He won’t know.” Bo-Katan offers, shrugging. “He’s delirious.”

“I…” Omera stammers. “…I cannot break his creed without his consent.”

“Consent he won’t be able to give if he bleeds out.” Bo-Katan returns. “Are you prepared to watch that happen?”

“You are one of his people. Can’t you remove it?”

Bo-Katan mutters under her breath. “Kriffin Watch. He won’t hesitate to end us both with his bare hands if we meddle with that helmet.”

Omera balks. Even barely conscious, the man on her floor is still a threat.

“We will cover his face, then.” Omera decides. “We will remove it only to administer medicine and water. When he regains consciousness, we will place the helmet back where it belongs.”

“Desperate for a peek, aren’t you?” Bo-Katan smirks. Omera does not dignify that with a response, throwing her a hard glance.

“I will look away if I must but let us be in agreement now. He has no time. He’ll injure himself further if we--”

“Alright. You remove it.” Bo-Katan removes the blaster at her hip and cocks the trigger, aiming it at the Mandalorian. “I’ll cover you.”

Omera struggles to keep her hands from trembling as her fingers reach beneath the rim, searching for purchase. Even the sight of his blood flowing freely in her own dwelling does not rattle her the way this forbidden act does.

Her fingers tell her where to go, unraveling his mystery without meaning to. She is shocked to find his skin cold despite the fire’s proximity. She can also feel the solid bones of his jaw and the rapid flutter of his pulse as she carefully unlocks the heavy metal helm. He is of an age, she notes, from the prominent scratch of stubble at his chin. It is novel to her, a contrast to the men of her village who traditionally shave away the hair from their faces. 

Biting her lip, she turns her face away as she slides it all the way up and off, disturbing the disheveled mass of thick damp hair curling against his scalp. She can feel the tension in   
the room thicken like steam, the intensity of Bo-Katan’s gaze unwavering as she places the sacred helmet at his side. She does not see but hears Bo-Katan advance to tie the cloth covering over his face, leaving only his lips exposed for air. Once he is concealed, Omera feels free to release her own breath. 

Despite the absence of his helmet, the Mandalorian does not wake, too lost in pain to fully comprehend what has been done . For this, she is oddly a little grateful. Omera bends herself over his concealed face, testing his level of awareness.

“Can you hear me?” She asks.

As predicted, the soldier is beyond answering. He only groans. He is delirious, not fully unconscious as she’d hoped. No matter, she has more pressing cares. Throwing back the woven coverlet at his waist, she peels away the scraps of his blood-soaked breeches. 

“I need you to hold him steady. Make sure he doesn’t throw off the mask.” 

Bo-Katan is already positioned, pinioning his arms across his chest and bearing down. 

She moves closer to his hip to feel for the wound again. When she finds it, he lets out a sudden strangled gasp, back arching up off the floor. She does not look away, she needs only see where the bullet made entry. His agony is now Bo-Katan’s care as she forces all of her armored weight upon his shoulders, barely keeping him from thrashing.

“Alright.” Omera finishes her appraisal, licking away the sweat gathered at her upper lip. “I’ll have to go in. “The bullet is still in his body, likely lodged deep between the bones and it will stay there until it is fished out. If it has nicked anything important, he will lose his pulse within the next hour."

A cup of unfiltered _spotchka_ is the strongest spirit she keeps in the house. She has no idea if it will numb him enough to soften the torment of what she must do but it will have to be enough. 

Her hand slips smoothly beneath his damp neck, bearing the weight of his head on her arm as she lifts him up slightly. His breath quickens as she offers the carved wooden cup. She touches it briefly to his dry lips, letting him scent its contents, before encouraging him to swallow. He turns his head away at the first whiff, but she is firm.

“Drink it straight, Mando.” She urges. “I have to go in after that bullet and it’s going to hurt worse than the Purge.”

It proves difficult for him. The liquor is strong and burns what it touches. The man chokes and coughs on the _spotchka_ , rivulets running down his chin and soaking the remains of his cowl. At last he drains the cup and she lowers him back down again. His chest heaves trying to contain his suffering but he manages to whisper two words: “Thank you.”

Omera feels her heart twist in pity. _You won’t be thanking me in a minute._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's lots of hurt going on right now but I promise, the soft/fluffy/sexy times will come eventually. Omera just has her hands full at the moment. Literally.


	4. THIS WOMAN'S WORK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omera and her daughter strive to save the Mandalorian's life.

Omera runs to the barn to fetch Winta. She finds her daughter curled up beside her old cradle, the Child fast asleep in its confine. She stirs and sits up at her mother’s entrance, blinking away sleep.

“How is the Child?” Omera asks, not wanting to startle her right away. She knew her daughter to be capable of following instructions, so whatever the girl’s youth or limitations were, they didn’t include dullness.

“Sleeping.” Winta yawns, reaching into the cradle to gently pat its stomach. “Poor thing was so tired.”

“Come with me.”

“Why?” Winta’s eyes grow big.

“I need your help, Winta.”

“With him?”

“Yes and I need you to be brave and not cry. Can you do that?”

“Yes mama.”

Nodding confidently, the girl spares one last glance at the baby before following her mother back into the house.

A dreadful quiet has settled over her hut. Omera slowly removes the fillet blade from its sheath, drowning out the crack of the fire and the wheeze of the Mandalorian’s labored breathing. 

It is not meant for this purpose. It is properly used to de-bone and clean the delicate veins from the teal _urwig_ that have made her village prosperous with their tender meat. She keeps the razor edge very sharp always so, if her sight does not fail her tonight, she will not need to cut him more than necessary. Precision will be his survival. He has lost enough blood already.

Bo-Katan stations herself at the wounded man’s head, Winta at his feet. She does not fear in the least for her girl child. She’s seen bloodied men laid out before. Bo-Katan, it seems, is just as unaffected. Splitting the widow’s new broomstick over her knee, she thrusts the sanded nub between his teeth.

“Bite down.” She orders, crossing his arms once more over his heaving chest. “It will be swift.”

Omera holds the blade over the fire to purify it, watching as the metal smokes to a bright sinister orange. When it is hot enough, she turns to confront her task. The man lies prone, chest rising and falling shakily. Somehow in his hazy awareness, he must know what is about to happen. Without the helm and his cowl loosened, the pulse at his throat thumps visibly in the dancing light.

“I can’t risk a slip of this knife.” Omera tells them, lowering her voice. “Hold him fast. Be sure he doesn’t move.”

Bo-Katan nods, her gaze steady. Winta’s eyes glisten, hugging the man’s booted ankles with both gangly arms as tight as she can. 

Omera kneels beside the Mandalorian and draws a slow breath. Gently, she peels back the coverlet again to reveal the wound, now bleeding sluggishly. She glances back at his covered face, as though seeking his permission.

 _I wish I could see his eyes!_ She thinks to herself. _That would make this easier._

To brace him, she places a gentle palm on his thigh. He flinches as though immediately expecting the knife but she squeezes his knee reassuringly.

“This will hurt.” She tells him. “But breathe slowly and lie as still as you can. I am going to make the first cut now.”

And she leans in.

The soldier’s body arches off the table and he screams around the gag. His chest heaves desperately, fighting involuntarily to shake her off. It is all she can do to keep her balance as he struggles beneath her.

The first cut is an entry cut, meant to widen her access point. The next cut will be the probe and it will be even worse.

His scream deafens; raw and ripped from the depths of him. She only prays it does not reach the ears of the sleeping babe outside. Omera drowns it out, the same way she drowned out her own cries during labor. The screaming is not important; the flesh and blood before her is all that matters. She must find the pellet wherever it has caught and she must do so fast.

“Hold him!” Omera grits out, re-tightening her grip on the handle of the blade. She pauses, not risking another attempt until he is stable again. The pain is too great, he needs a moment to recover.

Winta leans in with all her strength on the man’s ankles, straining to keep her hold. Bo-Katan struggles to keep his arms trapped against his chest, bearing down on his wrists. 

Omera wipes her brow, steadies herself, and goes in again.

It is terrible work. All three women are bathed in sweat and breathless but they do not relent. If one lets go, the man’s life will waver and each pump of his precious blood counts.  
The second time, the Mandalorian cries out a third time, loud enough to shake her rafters. She can feel his body resist her as she works, deftly swiping away rivulets of fast flowing blood until at last the knife point clinks against the surface of the bullet.

“I found it.” She grunts with exertion, mopping away the excess blood. Just a little more probing, then…

Suddenly his body convulses and he goes still beneath her hands. Omera stops breathing, terrified.

Bo-Katan releases his now limp arms, fingers swift at his throat.

“He’s out cold.” Her body sags in relief. “This’ll go easier now.”

“Good. I’m almost done.”

Winta falls back on her heels, panting to catch her breath. Her night dress is spattered with blood.

“Ah.” At last, Omera straightens her back, a lead ball the size of a child’s marble drops onto the floor with a sharp metallic ping, rolling away to fall between the slats.

It is not over. With the bullet removed, she works quickly, bathing the wound with a mixture of clean water and brine. Next, she applies the dressing, packing the wound with fresh _wico_ threads and floss, allowing the material to absorb any remaining bleeds. 

She barks orders curtly. “Hand me that roll there. No, not that one! Yes, that…!”

She sprinkles the root powder _uilin_ over the dressing to kill any bacteria that may have gathered during the probe. The powder will also speed clotting and promote healing. Finally, she slathers a long strip of fabric with a poultice of algae and tightly binds his leg. The algae contains properties that numb pain and discourage swelling. She prays it will be enough to tide him over for now.

Next, she washes his body, cutting away the bloodstained flight suit. He will need to have another one made or mend the tatters of this one. With warm water, she wipes his skin clean of blood, the mud of travel and the blackened soot of blaster discharge. The coverlet she’d used to keep him warm is now thoroughly soiled. She must find him a clean one.

When he is bathed, the three fall into heavy silence.

The ends of her hair are curled stiff with drying blood and she wipes away a smear of it clinging to her cheek. Her brow is damp. All three of them are sweating and spent. She checks the bindings on his leg a final time before withering, collapsing forward on her knees to simply breathe. Rest for her must be fleeting. Only for a moment… 

She knows she cannot sleep,. There is still much to do. She must make medicine for the fever that has already set upon him, another draught for the pains of mending, yet another to cleanse his blood. Her entire hut needs rinsing. Then there’s Winta’s breakfast and her soiled clothes.

Her stomach rumbles. When had she eaten last?

The dawn outside breaks white and pale, the sun’s weak rays casting a feeble light through her window. Outside the village has not yet begun to stir. Barka and his Watch have long ago departed for their bed rolls and their wives.

“He may die before the week is out.” Bo-Katan breaks the silence. Instantly, Omera startles at these words, straightening her spine stiffly.

“We won’t let that happen.” 

Unconvinced, the female warrior cocks an eyebrow, her fingers on his pulse. “Weak.” She comments. “But that’s to be expected.” Groaning with exertion, she rises. Though also exhausted, her daughter is already on her feet, rushing to clean the floor of blood. 

Bo-Katan’s sharp face is now softened, smudged shadows showing deep beneath her eyes. With bleary gaze she observes Omera as she lumbers to her feet, gathering her instruments and bowls. She must find more blankets to keep him warm, a clean set of clothes. Her husband had not been nearly of a size but perhaps one of his old shirts will serve? Some parts of his memory she could not bear to discard, she knows exactly where she will find them.

Then there is the woman.

“There’s hot water in the back.” Omera tells her, voice thick with fatigue. She busies herself by gathering up the bloodstained sheet the man had been lying on and tosses it in the washtub by the door. It will have to soak for a day before she can begin laundering it. She wonders vaguely if the men have left her any potage.

“Widow?” Omera starts at the other woman’s voice.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” She dips her head, formally. Like a warrior.

Her footsteps recede in the direction of the boiling chamber, leaving she and Winta alone with the unconscious man.

“Mama?” Winta speaks. 

“Hm?”

“May I help you stay up with him?”

“No. Go back to the barn and stay with the child. I’ll need you to mind him.”

“And you?”

“I’ll manage.” She sighs. “Put your shift in the washtub before you leave and I’ll have it ready tomorrow.”

The girl regards her soiled night dress with disgust. “Ugh. It’s all brown.”

“Blood turns when it meets air. It is not meant to be outside our bodies.”

Obediently, Winta plunges her arms into the garment chest to find a clean dress, rummaging until she finds one she favors. 

“Bring your clothes to the kitchen, Winta. You can dress in front of the fire.”

“In front of him?” 

“He won’t notice you. He’s not noticing anything at the moment.”

“Is he dead?” Winta carries in her armful of fresh clothes, eyeing the barely clad soldier asleep on their scheta floor.

“No. But he is very weak and I think his fever is rising.”

“Will he die?” Her voice is smaller this time.

“No.” Her mother replies.

“Can I make the _nesu_ soup today?” Shrugging herself out of her soiled nightwear, Winta quickly dons her under shift and day dress, tying the fasteners closed.

“Yes. Later, after you have slept.” Omera’s mind is too battered to refuse her.

This pleases the girl. She smiles and plants a kiss on her mother’s bloodstained cheek before departing.

Omera is now alone. With him.

The Mandalorian breathes, body shivering in the chill morning breeze. The fire he lies before is waning so she tosses another log onto it. He is bare-chested, stripped down only to his loin cloth, his boots, and the dressing on his leg. The laceration on his chest still needs dressing but she will see to it later. Omera rushes to pull another blanket from the holding shelf, tossing it over his prone form. He must be kept warm. Her mind flickers. _What was she about to--? Right! She must find some garb for him._

Her thoughts are too sluggish to race and yet they zing through her, keeping her exhausted body from dropping. She moves with purpose, retreating to her private quarter. Her bedroll calls out to her and she longs to throw herself onto it and never move again but instead, she lifts the heavy woven blanket and under-mattress to reveal the folded bundle beneath.

It has been three years to the day she has kept them there.

The folded shirt she takes in her hands had been made by her as a gift. The material fashioned from a light fabric spun from foreign fibers, trading gifts of a distant system. Dyed in natural indigo called _ai_ , the deep blue a near black. It had been her husband’s treasured garment and the only one she can imagine fitting the stranger’s larger frame in. She does not have proper trousers fashioned for men anymore. She will have to ask Barka to lend her one of his.

She returns to the _scheta_ and kneels by his side. Very gently, she raises him up so that she can deftly slip his arms into the open shirt sleeves, careful not to jar his injuries or slip his face covering. The Mandalorian slumbers on, eyes still concealed. Laying him back down again, she rests the back of her hand against his covered brow. 

He is feverish, of course.

Omera takes up his hand in her own and feels clamminess. Was his color fading? Or was it just the sun rising? The shadows lengthen across the barren _scheta_ , making it feel larger and her smaller. 

She is in the act of some nondescript task—folding a square of fabric to use as a compress—when the feeling strikes her, settling into her bones and not letting go. Without warning, she blinks and discovers dampness leaking fast from her eyes. Her body freezes, the newly wrung compress still chilled in her hands.

There are a million explanations for this, she tells herself.

It is the after-shock. She is starving, her belly howling for nourishment. She has not slept (nor will she sleep) for hours. The metallic scent of his blood lingers, mingling unkindly with the woodsmoke and sweat. There has been no time to process what she has done, only what she must do.

The Mandalorian lies before her, wandering some path between fever and the Unseen Layer. He is leaving, wherever he is now. This is not the first time she has witnessed such a departure. Keeping vigil has been her fate.

Dropping the compress, she clutches her own wearied, trembling body, hugging herself fiercely to keep from screaming. No one is there to hold her so she must re-center herself.  


_It's alright,_ she tells herself. _She has been here before._

She has been here before.

In the early morning light, she grants herself the luxury of weeping. 

For no good reason at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I had to use the Kate Bush song title. So cliche. So incredibly lame. Stay tuned for more tense times...


	5. BITTERNESS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omera and Bo-Katan introduce eachother.

She wakes indelicately having no memory of ever closing her eyes.

Bones complaining, she stirs, sensation returning through the mist of her mind. She is back with her body only by halves. Her lids itch uncomfortably with the sand of her own dried tears. Her throat feels raw and achy. There is warm dampness collecting at the corner of her mouth. Had she been weeping? What does she now rest her cheek? Her face feels crushed uncomfortably, as though it had been halfhazardly placed without care. The surface she lies against is warm and solid—a strange, dreamlike surface that rises and falls with her own body’s breath. The recurring refrain thrumming beneath her ear calls forth her awareness, bringing her slowly to surface. The scent of smoke, a dying fire.

(Oh, but she does not wish to leave this place. Waking is painful.)

Memories return in syrupy visions. _Voices. Fire. Armor. Blood. Fire. Flesh._

By the stars! Flesh!

She bolts upright, heart racing like a hummingbird.

The thrust to wakefulness is rude and jarring. His body lies at her knees, as still as though he were dead. No, but he is not dead. Just wandering; still lost. 

Omera glances frantically outside. The sun has reached its zenith, its rays filtering into her window bright and sharp, accusing her. _You have slept without leave. There is work left undone._

She raises an absent hand to her cheek. _Why is it damp?_ Frowning, she blinks down at the sleeping Mandalorian, the bare flesh of his throat peeking through the part in her husband’s shirt. A small slimy spot of dampness is rapidly drying there.

Ohhhh by every one of Endor’s moon, she had…salivated on him! 

She catches herself apologizing to him. She had not meant to let exhaustion claim her. But he has lasted through the morning and into the blazing midday. He breathes, his heart still beats. That is all she can ask of him now.

Aching, humiliated and jittery, she rises to her feet, swiping the grit from her eyes and patting her hair down. It is beyond hope now, she may as well wash it again next year. Oh she must be a sight! (and smell) She sways slightly on her feet, not quite awake yet. 

The fire in the hearth has gone cold, only a pile of faintly smoking ashes remain. Glancing down at him again, her sluggish mind struggles to recall what needed doing.  
The slash on his chest had never been treated. It will need a dressing and a poultice. Hopefully it has not festered further. 

Her work table is in shambles. She is running low on _candin_ flowers and their juice is more effective at addressing imbalances. She quickly starts to combine varied brine extracts to prep the slimy, cool strips of algae. Unlike fabric, the algae will remain perpetually cool on his feverish skin. Taking up the poultice, she kneels at his side again, parting the fabric of his shirt to examine the wound more closely.

“He still alive?” 

The blunt voice from behind startles her. 

Bo-Katan stands before the woven partition leading to the interior chamber. Sleep has done her good, her flint eyes whetted as she observes her surrounding. She is garbed only in her flight suit and Omera can see that she moves differently without her armor. She holds her shoulders high, as if she had always been trained to do so. There is assertion in her posture, the stance of one accustomed to giving orders.

“You sound almost sorry.” Omera responds.

If her words sting, The Mandalorian woman gives no sign. In fact, she seems momentarily startled by the response. But the look of surprise quickly fades as she folds her arms across her chest.

“How long until he’s well enough to travel?”

Omera does not lift her eyes off her work. “In this village, we have a common phrase for good morning. Would you like to learn it?”

Bo-Katan does not answer. Instead, she chooses to wait.

She finishes tying off the dressing with gentle tugs, careful not to aggravate the damaged skin. The man’s body shifts, his breathing softer from beneath the face covering.

“Give me an estimate.” Bo-Katan demands. Omera wilts slightly but complies.

“If the poultice works fast, he’ll be fit to travel in seven parseks.”

“Seven parseks?” Bo-Katan shakes her head in disbelief. “Impossible!”

“Is it?” Omera is similarly stunned. “He has lost half his life blood! It will take time for his body to make more.”

“Time we don't have!” Bo-Katan insists. “You know little of the threat hunting him now, Widow.”

“The threat I know lives in his blood and it will spread by the hour. The threat was in the bullet that shattered his bone. That is the only threat I am prepared to do battle with.”

“We’d be gone already if this forsaken mud pit had any bacta.” Bo-Katan grumbles. “Kriffin hocus-pocus…”

“You’d better pray this hocus pocus works. If it doesn’t, I’ll need to forage something stronger in the highlands and that will take another day.”

She had supposed this woman to be much like him in temperament—taciturn and ruthless. Perhaps all Mandalor women are as unfeeling as she? Bo-Katan releases an audible breath, readying herself for a counter. Omera’s will falters. Damn this woman, are they not exhausted enough already?

The sound of Winta’s soft footfall interrupts the impending confrontation, saving her. She greets her mother with a hug, recoiling slightly at her unwashed clothes.

“I’ll wash. I promise.” She yawns with a tired smile.

“I made _nesu!_ ” The girl beams, running to the kitchen. She returns, proudly offering her mother the carved bowl. Omera takes it, inhaling with a critical nose. The fermented krill paste turns smooth and savory if boiled at a gradual temperature but an inexperienced cook will ruin it if they leave it on the fire too long. She lowers her head and takes a sip.

“Does it taste alright?”

She nods and smiles, grateful for the help. The morning’s pot of nesu had never been made and would have otherwise been forgotten today. She tastes no bitterness which means Winta had not been lazy this time and had carefully skimmed the foam from the surface of the boiling soup.

As she had been taught.

“Offer some to our guest?” Omera casts her a knowing glance. “I imagine she could use some.”

“Alright.” Winta regards Bo-Katan with a guarded look.

As she has been taught.

Bo-Katan accepts the cup from the girl with a bow of her head.

“Thank you.” She says, lifting her eyes to meet Omera’s before taking a small sip. Her eyes reveal nothing but she takes another, this one deeper. Her daughter’s maturing cooking skills seem to agree with her. 

“I’m going to take the baby outside to play.” Winta turns back to her. “What should I tell the field foreman?”

“Tell him Barka has placed the Soldier in my care. I will be occupied today and probably tomorrow next.”

Winta nods. “Will he eat it?” She gestures at the soup bowl in her lap.

“Maybe later.” Omera replies, taking another sip. The familiar salty flavor revives her. “Better he sleep through the pain now.” 

“Does he want to see his baby?” Winta wonders.

“Not now. He is very weak. Best let him rest.”

“Okay.” Winta takes her leave, running back to the barn.

What a good child. To know exactly what he mother needs at the precise time. Cleaning off the excess poultice from her hands on her skirt, she rises to her feet and takes her bowl outside to nurse it.

 _What a different breed she is._ Omera thinks to herself. _What kind of mother would she make?_


	6. THE SIN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorian's condition grows dire. Unconventional reinforcements may be called for.

Bo-Katan makes herself scarce. The one credit she can attribute to this woman she barely knows—she can read air fluently enough. She does not announce her leave. She just vanishes.

Omera has a notion of where she is-- headed again for his ship’s landing zone to scan the parameters for any pursuants. Combat is where a woman like her feels most herself. 

Well, she is welcome to it.

As for her, she does not waste the sunlight. Between changing the Mandalorian’s dressing and rubbing his limbs to encourage blood flow, she mixes more medicine, manages to wash both her own and Winta’s shift and does a little cooking. A cauldron of salted _yunker_ greens bubbles over the fire. She strains the broth for the man to drink later. Full of minerals and gentle on the belly, if he ever does wake, he’ll have need of it to build his strength.

She places pads of algae on his wrists to keep him cool. The wet leaves stay moist far better than cloth which can carry germs and other unwanted matter. There are nutrients in the kelp that soothe the skin and ward off infection though his chest wound appears already enflamed when she examines it again. She bites her lip. Some poison may have worked its way in during the journey here.

She lays the back of her hand against his bare chest. It is very hot and dry as she expected. 

Healing takes time and effort and his has only just begun. As he sleeps the daylight hours away, she keeps watch at his side.

It is very dull work. Distraction is inevitable though she never completely lifts her gaze. To end the silence, a familiar verse tumbles from her lips. 

_Nakuna yo ya  
Nakuna yo  
Anma ga tuubinsu ya nikui yundo  
Anma ga tuubinsu ya nikuindo  
Hey ya yo hey ya yo  
Naku na yo_

She sings more to comfort herself than him. It is something to pass the time, to ward off her loneliness and drown out the constant chorus of his muffled grunts and unsteady breathing. She did not learn this tune from her own mother for she had never known her. Sold by her family to a Big House , her youth was spent reared as a _morikko_ \-- a nursemaid. She has had to learn many cradle songs in that involuntary office, forced to mind and coddle the infants of other women. This song, however, belongs only to Winta. It is the first gift she had ever given her baby.

The girl is too grown now to hear her sing this without blushing and a whining insistence to stop but she has never forgotten it. She sings it sometimes even to tease her. The song had been there much when Winta’s tears plagued her well after her weaning years; grieving the loss of her father. The song had been her solace in place of her husband’s arms.

The singing makes her mind drift. Memory consumes her and fills the empty hours. _Her husband’s smiling face, the fine wisps of his hair curled about his ears. The way he laughed. The way he would lift Winta on his shoulders like a sack of grain when he returned home from the field._

Well, he is dead and gone.

She sings the refrain over and over, despite the exhausted crack in her voice. It is her song, after all, and she may murder it as she sees fit.

The widow is very observant. She can see that the Mandalorian’s respiration responds to her voice. He fluctuates through periods of rhythmic breathing, as someone beset by peaceful sleep, only to be followed by patterns of shallow seizing breaths.

She is guiding him back. She knows this. Only she cannot be sure where he is, exactly.

Fragrant wood ash is rumored to steady breathing and quiet quickening of the blood, at least according to the gossips. She does not know if lighting a _hok_ stick will serve him any real benefit but she lights one anyway, letting the fine tendril of perfumed smoke hover in the air above him. She likes the scent. Flicking away spots of dried blood from beneath her fingernails, she frowns at the tangled braid slung over her shoulder.

She really ought to wash it.

Irritated, she shifts her attention from her dirty hair back to him.

She picks up his lifeless hand turning his palm upward to hold it in hers. Slowly, she begins tracing idle patterns into his wrist, the pad of his thumb, the warm center of his palm. She had done the same when her husband had lain there, too sick to left his head. She wonders if he can feel her fingertips on his skin?

For the millionth time as the suns set behind the mountains, she wonders where he could be.

The fever worsens by evening and with it, his increasing agitation. The man begins to stir restlessly on the pallet, thrashing as though he no longer feels the pain of his wounds. The _scheta_ is soon filled with the thick scent of sweat. She bathes his forehead again and changes out the poultice on his chest. Then she brings over her jars. Small bluish grey clay vessels hold her most potent drugs. Their ingredients are rare and difficult to find. The widow has saved them for only the most dire times.  
Wetting her fingers with the deep red liquid, she gently parts his lips. He twists his head sharply to the side, nearly catching her with his teeth. She quiets him and tries again, acclimating him to her touch. His tense body soon becomes lax and she is granted entry. Quickly, she swipes the inside of his cheek with the drug. Made for fussy infants too distraught for medicine, it will dissolve faster into his bloodstream and soon, she hopes, his suffering will abate. 

She spends the remainder of sunset just trying to keep him cool and calm, placing compresses of new algae at his throat and wrists. When she attempts to coax him into drinking a little water, he lashes out without warning; knocking the cup from her hand and clipping her hard on the cheek. She stumbles backwards with a gasp, hand against her smarting face. She takes a moment to catch her breath, panting as the throbbing pain dulls into numbness. 

Her nerves are raw and tattered. This outburst leaves her shaken. But he is not himself now. Her head knows this even as her chest twinges. The man she welcomed into her home would never have struck her. This she knows. 

The spot on her cheek will be purple by morning. Omera has long since given up on her appearance by now.

She smooths her skirt and picks up the cup. She cannot back down; not when he needs her. She refills it as though nothing had happened and takes a long, grateful sip.  
The drug works at its own pace. Or perhaps it does not work at all. He is still writhing in agony when Winta enters the _scheta_ out of curiosity, the Child balanced on her hip. Being banished to the barn was fun for a night but now the girl is probably wondering when she will sleep in her own bedroll again. 

The Mandalorian has begun conversing with the voices crossing his path, lips moving soundlessly at first then shaping half-formed words. Omera has been dreading this. It is a sign that he is slipping. Visitors led down the spirit’s path by fever are much harder to call back.

To her unacquainted ears, his phrases shift from guttural commands to breathless pleas. There is urgency in them, longing and pain. Erratic snatches of the basic tongue splinter his ramblings and she clings to them, trying to grasp some meaning like catching at unlike strands to weave a single pattern.  
_Stop._  
_Where._  
_Back._  
_Who._

The remainder must be words from his own language. She has never heard Mando’a before. His voice no longer seems to belong to him, irrational and fierce. The sound frightens Winta and makes the Child whimper.

“Go back to bed.” Omera strongly suggests. The Mandalorian is increasingly restless, and she can only guarantee one safety at a time. Winta’s wide eyes stay fixed on the wounded man. Omera snaps to divert her attention back.

“He’s fine, Winta!” She says, hoping to dismiss her. “He has a fever. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

The girl makes a face. “How could he **not** know?”

“You used to sing the rain song over and over again in your sleep when you were sick.” She points out.

“No, I didn’t!” Winta retorts. 

“Yes you --ungh-- did!” Omera grunts as she struggles to restrain his flailing left hand, keeping it flush against the floor to prevent him from damaging the dressing on his chest. She’s wrestled sick patients in their throes before but none as powerful as him. 

“You had me sing it countless times too.” She reminds her daughter, hoping to lighten the tension in the room. Winta wisely shifts the conversation to a more pressing matter.

“Is he gonna be ok?” 

“Yes. Now please go back to the barn?” Omera all but begs.

“Are YOU gonna be ok?”

Truth be told, she isn’t sure at this point. All she knows for sure is that she cannot have her focus or her strength divided now.

“He is in great pain. We’ll just have to weather it. Stay with the Child. That is the best thing you can do for him now.”

“Can we keep him this time?” Winta pats the baby’s back to comfort it.

Omera isn’t sure she heard that right but she knows that she is nearing her limit.

“Who? The Child?”

“Both.” Winta decides before finally retreating back to the barn. 

Omera does not see her as the man shoves aside the coverlet across his chest, grasping blindly at thin air as though searching for something.

She prays not a weapon.

Omera braces herself for another endless night.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Night falls. 

The Mandalorian continues to worsen despite her effort. She has traded out the poultice on his leg for stronger medicine but it does nothing. She has re-bathed his wounds, sweating and fighting him every inch, but that battle she wins at least. She even forces another shot of _spotchka_ down his throat but he continues to rave. Sweat pours off his body, his hair wet as though it has been dipped in the wash basin. 

Hours pass and his terrors become more vivid. He cries out, shouts loud enough to make her afraid the Scouts will appear at her door.

She is at a loss.

She is about to get up and fetch another tumbler of _spotchka_ when suddenly he sits up with a strangled yell.

Omera freezes in terror, blood stilled in her veins.

For a pregnant moment, neither dare move. Slowly, his head turns in her direction. The words he speaks this time are now directed at her.

“Zakaar tsun…adika?”

Omera can only stare, helpless. Does he think she is one who can speak his language?

“I’m sorry.” She stammers in Basic, mind racing. “I…I don’t—“

He is lost, unable to distinguish his surroundings from the fever realm. Omera screams silently in her head. He mustn’t move, mustn’t worsen his injuries.

Before she can finish, his shaking hand rips the flimsy cover away from his face. 

Time grinds to a halt. 

The widow dares not move. All she hears is the deafening thump of her heart against her ribs as she lifts her eyes to meet his. 

He is breathing hard. Perhaps he had been running the entire passage back to the surface where Omera now sits. The dim light of the hearth fire conceal much of his features but she can see that he is not plain of face. His brows are heavy and his lashes long. The creases of maturity she glimpses at his brow and the edges of his mouth do him grace. He is neither new nor green. They are of an age. His lips are full and parted. The sculpted nose and firm jaw contrast the soft roundness of his cheeks and large brown eyes. Eyes that now stare at her uncomprehending. 

He speaks again, this time harsher.

“Outek adika avar!

Omera flinches, drawing back and away from him.

One hand jerks automatically to his wrist. Discovering his weapon gone, rage (or terror) wash instantly over his pale face. 

Before she can speak to him, he rises to his feet, the agony of his wounded leg forgotten (or ignored).

“Sir!” Omera blurts, hands clasped tight together. “Please! You’re hurt!”

He does not hear her. A wild frenzy has overtaken him, eyes bulging and veins protruding at his neck. He takes one faltering step towards her. Then another, forcing the rigid limb of his wounded leg to advance. He is as a wounded animal cornered and his sights set wholly on her.

She has seen his face. 

Omera cannot breathe. Her mouth has gone utterly dry.

She wonders fleetingly what use it might be to run. Instinctively, she cowers back, lifting her arm to shield her face as he advances in a broken charge.

A high pitched whistle splits the air. 

Suddenly the Mandalorian staggers where he stands, one raised fist frozen in mid-blow. Omera watches his struggle from the safety of the alcove she’s backed herself into. Something has ensnared him by the wrist, something like an invisible chord. A sudden sharp yank overpowers him and he falls hard, going limp instantly on the ground.  
Omera searches the dim room frantically, finally landing on... 

It is Bo-katan. 

She stands breathless and fully armored in the main doorway, arm outstretched, the grappling line of her vambrace tethering her senseless kinsman to the floor.

“My apologies.” The Mando’a woman speaks to her. “I should not have left you alone with him.”

Trembling Omera crawls out of her hiding place, certain her heart will never stop pounding.

“Are you hurt, widow?”

Omera can only shake her head, wide-eyed, as Bo-Katan retracts the line from where it connects to his body. It disappears back into her armor with a hiss and a snap.

“You _are_ injured.” She observes. 

Omera touches the blossoming bruise on her cheek with a quivering hand. 

“Yuh-yes. He…he..." She forces herself to swallow, intending to continue but the words do not come to her parched throat. There is no need. Bo-Katan has enough wit to sound amused.

“I’d sooner let the Foundling play with a wounded _braun_ cub than nurse a Mandalorian without his armor. Let me take the watch tonight. I can clip him if he bares his teeth again.”

Omera nods, too stunned and drained to do much else.

“He…he has a fever.” She rambles, unsure whether she is speaking more to Bo-katan or her own addled brain. “He is not himself...”

“Wrong. He IS himself. He is a killer and you have just broken his Creed.”

Omera does not know how to respond to that. She had not done so by choice. He had revealed himself! His mind may have been in another realm entirely but she had not enticed him to remove the covering. Swaying on her feet, the Widow stumbles forward to check his wounds for further damage. 

“Wait.” Bo-Katan puts out her hand. “Let me sort him.”

Omera nods again, silently grateful another is there to tend her charge. In truth, her body will not stop trembling. Bo-Katan lifts his prone weight with ease and drags him back to the pallet. From her distance, Omera can see he has not overly disturbed his leg dressing. Only the algae pack on his chest needs a refresh. 

“You must sleep, widow.” Bo-Katan says evenly. “You’re no good to him like this.”

Omera can only nod blankly. She feels distant and faint. Bo-Katan sidles close, nodding in his direction.

“What must I do?” 

This Omera can answer.

“Keep changing the compresses on his head and wrists. Keep him cool and make him lie quiet. Give him water if he seems thirsty. Don’t fall asleep.”

Bo-Katan nods, seating herself cross-legged beside his pallet, ready to take the watch. For the first time since her arrival, a hesitant smile tugs at her lips. Looking down, she regards his sleeping face with a shrug.

"Hmph. Seen worse." She comments, taking up his face covering again and fastening it back firmly around his head. Concealed once more, the world is where it should be again.

“Thank you.” Omera releases a broken breath. She means this with all her heart. Bo-Katan only nods.

"Sleep."

Tossing one last log on the dying fire, Omera retreats at last to the solace of her bedroll. The soft fabric welcomes her like a familiar friend and she longs to drown in it. Her body buzzes, hot and shivery, her heart still racing behind her breast. 

His eyes haunt her dreams that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I normally don't converse with folks in notes but I just wanted to express my sincere gratitude to you all for reading and commenting. It gives me such pleasure to know you enjoy my efforts. It is making this fic truly fulfilling to write. I hope to update at least once a day as the fire possesses me and my schedule allows.
> 
> No, I do not know any Mandalorian words and I cannot be bothered to research them.


	7. DIVERGENT PATHS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A domestic moment between Omera and her daughter. (Shower status achieved: FINALLY) Bo Katan gives generously and Omera uncovers truths she isn't sure she wants to keep close.

Sleep comes begrudgingly to the widow that night. Once more, oblivion overtakes her without pretext. As she stirs, the first relief she feels is the long missed comfort of her own bed beneath her. The softness of the fabric against her skin, the scent of her (once shared) pillow, and the deep contentment most grown women ache for—lying flat on one’s back while the world continues to spin.

Remembrance trickles back in shifts as she drifts upwards.

She has seen his eyes. She has seen their color and shape. She has seen rage flash at her from behind them like daggers.

_Oh, must everything with his people be a weapon?_

The widow struggles to conjure his face once more in her sleep-dimmed brain. Had his skin been tan like hers? Perhaps it had just been shadow veiling his unnatural pallor that had made her think so. Of course, she had been frozen in terror at the time so the image her memory produces cannot possibly be accurate. His eyes had been brown, like hers. This she knows. His cheeks; they had been rounded; a reminder of his youth. He may even have had a dusting of dark hair around his upper lip and chin.

His voice. Speaking foreign words she has never heard before—a voice that had promised her harm.

She shudders into the warmth of the sun and finally decides to unsee him. She open her eyes. 

It is not the sun that greets her but the tapping of tiny feet.

She stirs on her bedroll, lids fluttering to meet the wide midnight gaze of the green Child. Winta is with him, holding him above her body playfully while his tiny feet dance against her side. He squeals when he sees her smile.

“Mmm…” Omera slowly pushes herself upright, the sensation of fully stretching her back pure pained bliss. 

“Good morning, my love.” She murmurs, still half-formed from sleep. 

Winta giggles and shakes her head. 

“It’s not morning anymore, mom.” She takes the child in her lap, sitting cross legged beside her bedrool.

Omera raises a hand to her forehead with a gentle frown, pushing aside her messy hair. She sighs a yawn. 

“Mmmph, by the Force.” She laments her addled brain, still shaking off exhaustion. “Have you had breakfast?”

“I made more _nesu_ and also a batch of _yelin_. He loved it, didn’t you?” Winta beams down at the Child who squeals, two fists waving in the air.

“You made _yelin_ all by yourself?” The thin fried batter cakes are notoriously troublesome to shape.

“Yup. We saved some for you and the lady.”

Memory rushes back. The woman. The one now keeping watch over the Mandalorian. 

She has no idea if she has done the wisest thing; leaving this blunt-edged mystery of a woman alone with her patient. For all she knows they are kinsmen bonded by feud or locked in some other involuntary agreement. Perhaps they are two solitary bodies journeying on different points in a shared orbit. Whatever they are to eachother, she is reasonably confident that both are safe in the other’s company. 

“How is the soldier?” She asks.

“Sleeping.” Winta replies.

Then they are all safe.

She rises to her feet, folding the bedroll neatly away so it can be ignored again. 

“I’m going to freshen up. Play with him a moment.”

Winta is more than happy to oblige, covering her eyes before his little face and then abruptly revealing herself.

“Ina…ina..BA!”

The Child claps its tiny talons and waits eagerly for her to do it again.

Selecting a fresh shift and from her garment basket, she steps into the privacy of her _huika_ —the one her husband had built from _hino_ wood. The chamber is small—enough to fit one. Spring water heated by a vein of fire in the Earth filters through a network of subterranean piping and into the carved spouts connected to its ceiling. A flick of a switch and the space transforms into a haven. 

Purification at last. 

When the heated water hits the surface of the wood, it releases the scent of its oil. Omera inhales a deep breath of the forest as she rubs her face clean. Running fingers through her soiled hair, she rinses it well before generously rubbing _carlene_ vinegar into her scalp to rid it of buildup. As she begins to massage her body with a porous chunk of _cinaeda_ , her memory stirs.

There had been days like this. Just before the village had assigned her the name “Widow”. When she had been nursing her husband, the elders could not convince, cajole or threaten her enough to tear herself away from him. She ignored their warnings, lashed out at their concerned hands, remained stubbornly at his side until lack of food and sleep withered her completely. She wept until her body refused to replenish its supply of tears. Eventually it revolted and the women took her back into their care.  
In the end, she ate the food she brought him knowing he would never take it. What little he managed to consume in those final painful days did nothing to lead him back. She had drunk the water, accepting that it, too, would be of no use where he was headed. In the end, her presence meant more to her than it did him.

But the Mandalorian endures. His body and soul dwell both in her _scheta_ , finding their way back to one another. If he does begin to drift, she will be there to catch the signs, there to guide his path. 

She shakes out the damp strands of her hair, twisting to rid them of excess water. Grabbing a sheet of soft _auma_ fronds, she dries herself well from her shoulders to the soles of her feet. Stepping behind her privacy partition, she hastily exchanges last night’s worn dress for a clean one. Untying her hair, she combs it quickly to get the more stubborn gnarls out. At least it is finally clean. Once she finishes twisting it into a braid, she calls for her daughter. 

“Winta? Come, I’ve miss you.”

Handing the Child a little silver ball on a chain, Winta wags a finger in front of its face. 

“I’ll be right back! Don’t move ok?”

The Child shoves the ball in its mouth, plopping its pudgy little body down in the center of the floor as Winta joins her mother.

“I want to plait your hair.” The widow kneels, comb in hand. Winta sits before her, letting her gently part the soft tendrils on her small head. She combs until her hair is as smooth as flowing water. Then she presses sweet _nelb_ oil into the curling ends of each plait. As she works, she speaks to her girl. She feels as though they have not exchanged quiet words for many moon changes.

“I’m sorry Winta, I know I haven’t had much time to go over your lessons.” 

“That’s ok.” Winta shrugs. “Just means I get extra play time with him.”

“Minding a Child is not all play, my love.”

“I know how to do it. You taught me with dolls remember? At least you did when I was little.”

“Yes. But to me you will always be little, my bird.”

Omera finishes plaiting her hair and emerges from behind her partition. She bends down to the Child who coos as he is lifted. Indeed, she has missed the feel of a baby in her arms. His warm body melds to her embrace instantly.

“Now this Little One is not a doll.” She declares, tickling its belly. 

“I know. Hey, did you know he makes green poop?”

Omera makes a face. 

“Well, I suppose I do now.” Balancing the baby on her hip, she takes her daughter by the hand.

“Come, let’s check on our guests.”

Her child does not notice the slight waver to her hand as she parts the curtain leading into the _scheta_  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
She discovers the Mandalorian has been laid out once more in his armor. Gleaming plates encase his still frame, helmet raised slightly to ease the added strain on his airway. Inspecting closer, she is surprised to find that his bloodstained fabric flight suit has been stitched beneath the beskar. She cannot say she is not impressed by the transformation or Bo-Katan’s skill with a needle. In addition to his garments, his vast array of personal effects—the weapons he wears as an extension of his body—have been arranged neatly at his feet. Like this, he resembles a war _shomok_ displayed in state; prepared for his journey to the Spirit Layer. 

The Child begins immediately to fuss at the sight of his protector, tiny arms reaching and body twisting in her embrace as though desperate to be near him. Omera soothes it, tightening her grip gently so he should not fall out of her arms.

“Calmly little one. Not now.”

“I got him.” Winta reaches up to take him. “It’s time for his nap anyway.” She hushes the infant against her shoulder and heads outside.

She finds Bo-Katan studying a hologram image of a star map hovering from a tiny projection in her vambrace. Her unwavering gaze fans across each glittering point, as though searching. The map dissolves instantly as her attention shifts. In the midday sun, Bo-Katan’s pale face is wan. Clearly she had kept to her charge and not let sleep claim her. She can see the other woman is at once both relieved and guarded by her appearance.

“Your girl made more soup.” Bo-Katan sends an amiable nod in Winta’s direction.

“Her name is Winta.” 

“Yes. She told me.” The Mandalorian woman’s smile is not without warmth. Omera inspects the soup pot, ladling out a cup for herself and carrying it with her to the fire.   
Taking a sip, she is impressed. Another successful batch, she ought to start making it every morning. 

“How was he last night?” She kneels next to the woman.

“I placed the armor back on his body.” Bo-Katan explains. “To put him at ease. The Children of the Watch do not do well without their armor. Some have been driven mad by its loss.”

Omera bites her lip. This she knows too well. Bo-Katan continues as Omera reaches out her hand to his wrist, searching for his pulse.

“To part a Child of the Watch from his armor, another must defeat him in combat or pry it from his cold body. I put it back on him to help call back his mind.”

“I imagine that must have been difficult.”

Now Bo-Katan’s smile changes.

“I will say he gave me good sport, wound and all. But I can handle my own.”

“Thank you, again.” Omera retracts her hand. He is, in fact, calmer. His breath flows even and quiet. 

After a thoughtful pause, Bo-Katan asks:

“What has he told you about our people?”

“Not much.” Omera admits. “Sorgan is so remote, we hear only tales from travelers. Not everyone believes them though.”

Bo-Katan bristles at this response. It is one thing to be a legend and another to be only a myth in the eyes of the world.

“Let me show you something. Bring me the sharpest blade in this house.”

Omera glances towards her kitchen where the butchering knives hang. Rising she goes to pull the largest from its sheath and offers it to the woman seated by her fire. Bo-Katan appraises it with a raised brow.

“This is the blade I used to chop bones for stock.” Omera explains.

Bo-Katan hefts its weight in both hands. Tearing away her leather glove with her teeth, she tests the blade’s edge with her exposed index finger, noting the faint bead of blood welling up.

“Well.” She confirms. “I’d say this blade does its job.”

She leans forward, lowering the knife towards the sleeping man. Omera balks, setting aside her soup bowl in growing alarm.

“What are you--?”

The sharp point of the blade makes a single, solitary plink as it makes contact with the cuirasse. Slowly, Bo-Katan draws its edge across the chest plate. It makes a faint keening hiss on its path across the unyielding surface. Its wearer sleeps on, taking no notice at all.

“This armor he wears…” she explains. “…is crafted from pure beskar. As you can see, nothing can pierce it. It is stronger than any material in the universe which is why it is sacred to our people but most of all, to him. It is his entire world, the crowning result of his exploits. Not all of us are fortunate enough to get our hands on beskar. In fact, the Mandalorians who still remain must make do with lesser metals; ones that can be breached. For this armor, he is envied as well as hunted. Admired as well as hated. A suit made from pure beskar is exceedingly rare. Most of our planet’s supply was stolen in the Purge, you see.” 

Omera flinches at the sight of the heavy blade dragged over the shaped metal sheath covering his chest. She forgets he is not vulnerable and that the blade cannot possibly hurt him. With a soft zing, the lethal whisper completes its course.

“I’ll show you something else.”

She slashes the blade across her own breast plate with a jarring clang. 

“Observe.”

Omera squints to see a pale dent joining the collection of other scars and imperfections scrawled across her deep blue armor.

“My father had this armor commissioned . We were not wealthy enough then to afford pure beskar. To be worthy of a Mandalore, our armor must contain at least some percentage of our sacred metal but various tribes claim different levels of wealth. Whole tribes have been slaughtered over the beskar and who claims rights to it. Still, even flawed, very little can truly damage it.”

 _What a strange people._ Omera thinks. _To weigh the value of an earthly metal above their own souls._

“Place your hand on the cuirass.” Bo-katan instructs. 

Omera blinks, unsure of her meaning. Bo-Katan gestures again.

“Your hand, widow. You have never touched pure beskar before, have you?”

“There was no need.” _Or desire._

“Well, learn something. You may not get another chance.” 

Omera obeys, tentatively flattening her palm across the grooved emblem in the center of his chest.

“What can you feel?”

The surface of the metal is smooth as river glass as she expects, without a single flaw or marking. She had expected to find it cold yet it is slightly warmed by his body’s heat. Her hand rises gently with his steady breath, and behind it she can feel the faint rhythmic pumping of his blood. Her breath comes short.

“Strong enough to deflect any blade yet delicate enough to detect a beating heart. Useful when trying to identify the living from the slain on the battlefield. No other metal in the universe is capable of this.”

Flushing hotly, she withdraws her hand, placing it once again into the safety of her lap. She averts her gaze. Touching him to heal is one thing but touching his armor now feels baser, uninvited. The world of his armor and her own do not meet. They exist on parallel paths that never cross.

Bo-Katan grins as if she, too, has learned something.

“What else has he told you?”

Omera frowns, struggling to remember. “Very little. I know your people remain in hiding. I know that you are warriors, raised to fight.”

“Why did he come here?”

“To help us. That is all we asked of him and he was true. We have never felt more secure. Before he came, raiders from neighboring systems would plunder our harvest every season.”

“And now?”

“Now we do not simply lie down and accept it.”

“Do you know why he never removes his helmet?”

“That I could not learn.”

Omera's gaze shifts to the collection of weapons laid out on her floor. Vambrace, missile pods, the bandolier, the rifle, the dagger, the blaster, the garotte, the flamethrower. Somehow seeing these things disconnected from him makes them more menacing. Her hot face cools as she takes in each one, noting their size and weight. 

“Any one of these could end your life in a single breath.” 

“Or save it.” Omera whispers. “He uses them to protect.”

“And carries them constantly, the same way your people carry their nets and shovels. They are part of who he is, what defines him. That is the Way.”

Omera perks. The Way. She has heard him speak this word before. She hasn’t the courage to pry deeper into what it could mean but somehow she believes the word changes shape between him and this woman.

“Tell me about yourself. Is he your commander? Do you serve him?”

Bo Katan seems to bristle at this question but her response is calculated. “In a sense.”

“Do you share a clan?”

“I am Bo-Katan of Clan Kryze.” She says her name like a raised banner. Her shoulders lift high, as though expecting Omera to have some inkling of recognition but Omera shakes her head.

“I am high born.” Bo-Katan continues. She gazes down at the sleeping soldier beside her. “He is only a Foundling.” She says the word with distaste. “His path he must carve out himself.”

“Has he…ever shown you his face?”

The armored woman shrugs. “Once. I was present at the time. But it was not to me he revealed himself.”

Omera suppresses the instant pang of jealousy rising hot within her. Had he, in his right mind, revealed himself to another? Bo-Katan must sense her ire but wisely, she does not speak to it.

“He possesses something I need.” She says. “I must wield it if I am to become who I was meant to be.”

The widow cannot imagine what this object might be but she knows one thing—what she needs from him most she knows exactly where to find.

“Your people do not believe in destiny do they?”

“We care for and protect the land we live on and it does the same for us. This is my house. I made it. What do your people make? Only war?”

Bo Katan’s serious mouth quirks upward, gesturing to the metal cuirass she wears. “And these. Tools of war. My people have a deep respect for how much all things of value in life require conquest.”

“Life?” Now Omera’s mouth twitches up into a smirk. “I thought your people dealt only with death.”

“When we must.” 

Omera suddenly craves some _spotchka_ terribly. She does not usually long for the burn of it on her tongue with the suns till up but Bo-Katan’s words have whetted her. She rises, fetching two tumblers and a jar. This batch is still young so it has not matured into the potent brew she will load onto the wagons for sale in the neighboring taverns. She pours the pale blue liquid into the cups and offers one to Bo-Katan.

The other woman stretches her limbs lazily, accepting the tumbler. She takes a grateful sip and her body relaxes, the visible tension melts and she becomes something closer to human.

“What do you believe he sees when he looks at you, Widow?” 

She does not answer right away, taken aback by the question. She has never considered this before.

“No one.” Omera admits. “Perhaps…a friend.”

“Not an equal.”

She chuckles and takes another sip. “How could I be?”

“He has seen worlds, plundered riches and uncovered truths someone like you could only dream of.“

“And what are those worlds to me?" Omera sighs. "My world is outside playing in the barn. My world is my hearth, my village and my people. If I gain it is only because I have given; not taken.”

Bo Katan regards her with pity. 

Before she can divert this spotchka-laced disaster of a conversation, a low moan rises from behind his helmet.

“He needs water.” Omera states, grateful for the diversion.

“I will get it.”

Expertly, Bo-Katan releases a mechanism beneath the helmet and it lifts, freeing the lower half of his face so that he can receive the water she pours past his lips. Lowering the helmet again, she settles him back against the head rest but he does not return at once to the darkness. He shifts uneasily, speaking again his strange words from behind the helmet.

"Ad'ika...ad'ika melen...."

“What is he saying? Can you tell me?”

Bo-Katan tilts her head, listening as the soldier's breathing becomes more and more agitated. She places a hand over her kinsman's chest and speaks to him, presumably in the same tongue.

“His accent is not the same.” She admits. “Only the Children of the Watch received regular education in Mandoa.“ She pauses, tilting her head to listen. "He is asking for the Child."

Omera is not surprised. "Of course. They are inseparable. He must be worried for its safety."

"I have told him that the Child is safe. That he must rest."

"Can you...please tell him that I will bring the Child to him? After he has eaten."

Bo-Katan obeys, repeating the words to the feverish man. The words seem to quiet him and he settles back into silence.

Omera returns to her cooking pot. Now that the man is regaining his consciousness, she must try and convince him to eat a little and build back his strength. She has observed where she might safely unlatch the helmet to offer him some broth. Bo Katan senses that the transfer of duties has now begun. Wearily, she rises to her feet.

"Thank you for the spotchka, Omera."

Omera starts at the sound of her name from the woman's lips. It is the first time she has ever heard her speak it. The flare of curiosity ignites another spark.

"Wait!" She calls out before Bo-Katan can retire to her bed roll. "One more thing!"

Bo-Katan pauses.

"His name...what is it?" Surely he was not born with the name Mando.

"I cannot reveal all his secrets." She smiles, knowingly. "Best let that one come to you."

The partition closes behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to follow this yarn as I've unraveled it. I promise Din will wake up soon. I can only write him unconscious for so long. Men of action were never meant to lie.


End file.
